A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1994 by Anna Eberhardt

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email [email protected].

  First Diversion Books edition May 2013.

  ISBN: 9781626810211

  Also by Tiffany White

  A Dark & Stormy Knight

  Bad Attitude

  Cheap Thrills

  Forbidden Fantasy

  Love, Me

  Naughty by Night

  Naughty Talk

  Open Invitation

  Restless Nights

  The 6′1″ Grinch

  For Brittany Detmer and Ethan Todd. Welcome to the World.

  Special thanks to Carrie Feron for showing me her slice of the Big Apple, and to Donna Julian for her connection to Triple Knight Publishing.

  Prologue

  BRITTANY ASTOR wanted three things:

  She wanted to be beautiful.

  She wanted Ethan Moss.

  She wanted a cat.

  The cat was a possibility.

  1

  BRITTANY ASTOR wriggled her sock-clad feet and stretched. She’d managed to idle away the rainy Sunday morning tucked in bed with the thick weekend edition of the New York Times.

  Shoving aside the scattered newspaper, she patted the fluffy blue-and-white cabana-stripe comforter in search of the ad she’d clipped from the Positions Available section. Finding the clipping, she fingered it thoughtfully while sipping herbal tea from one of her grandmother’s delicate china cups. She read the ad again.

  WANTED:

  Book Lover with excellent reading voice.

  Generous stipend. 212-555-1130

  As a senior editor for Triple Knight Publishing, Brittany knew she more than met the ad’s qualifications. She pushed the comforter aside, crawled out of her warm cocoon, and took the clipping to her desk in the living room. The oversize French country desk was a shambles of good intentions. As she placed the ad beside the phone, she glanced guiltily at the slush pile of manuscripts she’d lugged home from the office.

  What was she doing, considering taking on a job that required even more reading?

  Was she forgetting that it meant extra work—that dreaded four-letter word she tried never to let intrude into her leisure time? One only had to look around her apartment to see that she was more indolent kitten than hyper puppy. Her attitude toward life was that if you moved too fast, things blurred. No one had to tell her to stop and smell the roses.

  She loved the sunny, rent-controlled Park Avenue apartment she and her sister had inherited from their grandmother. Francesca, Brittany’s older sister, was a globe-trotting model and used the apartment more as a hotel than a home. As a result, the decor was a reflection of Brittany’s taste.

  The pale yellow living room walls were a pleasing backdrop for her plump, chintz-covered sofas. The large-screen television had Dolby sound, and the kitchen stove was an oversize restaurant model. In the small garden balcony, pastel roses bloomed.

  Only one thing was missing from her life—a man to smell the roses with.

  One particular man.

  Just as seeing a Bengal kitten had put her off wanting any other kitten, so had falling in love with Ethan Moss at the age of fourteen spoiled her appreciation for any other man.

  She’d first seen Ethan in Deauville, France, back before her family’s fortune had been lost to risky investments. At the time, her father indulged his taste for Thoroughbred racing and had taken the family to Deauville for a vacation, and for the Agence Française yearling sales.

  By chance they’d attended the Gold Cup polo tournament, in which Ethan was competing. He and a few of his Argentine pals had won. As she watched Ethan play, sweaty horse and sweaty rider had fused to form an indelible erotic picture in her mind. Man and horse together were grace and power, in control, asserting their courage and skill.

  Aside from the sexual rush Ethan’s sheer masculine beauty gave her, she was captivated by the obvious joy he took in horsemanship and polo. It wasn’t so much the winning he thrilled in, it was the playing.

  His exuberant exhibitionism—a primal display of male prowess—had drawn Brittany, the introvert, like a moth to flame.

  From that day onward, she’d made it her business to learn everything about Ethan Moss. A New Yorker too, he traveled in her family’s set. At first, because Ethan and her sister were closer in age, she’d made Francesca her source of information. Later, when Brittany was old enough, she’d watched him from afar at social events as well as polo matches. They’d been introduced once, but she was sure he would never remember her.

  Her heart had broken when he became engaged to one of the “society” beauties. Brittany had almost destroyed the scrapbooks she’d kept on him. When the wedding was abruptly canceled, however, she was glad she hadn’t gotten rid of them. Though totally aware of her foolishness, she had slavishly continued to fill the books with articles and pictures.

  With a resigned sigh, Brittany set about straightening up her apartment, but the words of the New York Times ad never left her mind.

  She would answer the ad.

  No, she wouldn’t.

  As she raised the shade at the kitchen window over the sink, she imagined a striped, spotted kitten playfully swatting the tasseled pull. If she got the reading job, she could afford the twelve hundred dollars to buy the designer cat. Then she’d have some company.

  She pictured the mystery client—undoubtedly a dowager with a cat … some wealthy socialite with poor eyesight. One who’d want Suzy’s column in W read to her. At the end of the month, the woman would be off to one of her other houses, perhaps in the Hamptons.

  Brittany knew all about the rich.

  Both she and Francesca had been debutantes. Francesca had been Deb of the Year. Brittany had been relieved just to survive the experience when it was her turn, four years after her sister.

  Their mother always referred to the two of them as Beauty and the Brain—she had thought the terms equally complimentary. Francesca, with her glossy dark hair, startling blue eyes and porcelain complexion, was the Beauty. And Brittany, with her light brown hair, most unremarkable hazel eyes and freckles, was the Brain.

  It was no surprise that Francesca had gone on to become the Face of the Nineties, a supermodel. Nor was it a surprise that Brittany took refuge in the world of books. Painfully shy, Brittany liked being in the shadows as much as Francesca adored the spotlight. They might have been enemies, but they weren’t. They were best friends.

  Brittany rubbed her temple. Too much thinking was giving her a headache. She went to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom for a remedy. Chasing the aspirin with a glass of water, she caught her reflection in the mirror.

  She was going to be twenty-five in six weeks. She deserved a great present.

  She deserved the Bengal kitten.

  But treating herself would require moonlighting to get the necessary funds. The ad had said generous stipend.

  Tomorrow, she promised her reflection in the mirror. She’d answer the ad tomorrow.

  “DO YOU WANT TO CALL or should I?”

  Brittany looked up from the ad on her desk. She’d been staring at it off and on all day. Now it was quarter to five, and she’d promised herself she’d make the call today. While she wanted the extra money, however, she hated giving up her freedom
in the evenings.

  “What?” she asked Sandy Christenberry, her petite blond assistant. Why would Sandy want to moonlight? She had a trust fund. The only thing Sandy wanted, and didn’t have, was Brittany’s position.

  “Lauren Tucker,” Sandy explained. “She’s not going to be thrilled about this, you know.” Sandy waved the sketch in her hand for emphasis.

  “Oh.” Of course. Sandy was talking about one of Brittany’s writers. At the cover conference earlier in the day, Brittany had learned that Lauren’s book cover was going to have pink flowers on it … lots of them.

  “Just fax her the sketch,” Brittany replied, ignoring Sandy’s look of censure for taking the coward’s way out. “Oh, and Sandy,” she added, “be sure it’s my name you sign to the fax.”

  Sandy’s shrug conceded her temporary defeat. “We’ll probably hear her scream all the way from the coast.”

  “Probably,” Brittany agreed. “Close the door on your way out, Sandy. And hold my calls for the rest of the day.” Brittany didn’t want anyone hearing her making a personal call about moonlighting. Editors weren’t supposed to have lives; only careers.

  Triple Knight Publishing was a hard/soft publisher. At the moment, Brittany acquired women’s fiction and cookbooks. She loved her job, but in publishing the pay left a lot to be desired until you reached the higher echelons.

  For now, her rewards weren’t monetary. They were the thrill of calling a first-time author and making an offer for her manuscript; the pleasure of seeing a book she’d edited on the bookstore shelves and hopefully on the bestseller lists.

  Her ultimate goal was to set the tone of a publishing house as publisher. And to be handsomely rewarded so she might afford to indulge her taste for things like expensive kittens, Broadway plays, maybe even a Thoroughbred of her own.

  She’d have a plush office that was custom decorated instead of one filled with posters to cover its dreary beige walls. She glanced around at the piles of manuscripts everywhere, the covers scattered on her desk, the schedule for the year posted on the wall and copies of her books jumbled on the shelf. It was a good thing she wasn’t claustrophobic.

  Her glance stopped at the ad she’d been avoiding all day. It was time to act.

  She punched the telephone number given in the ad, then relaxed back in her chair as she waited for the call to go through. She could hear it ringing. And ringing. Oh, great. The dowager was hard-of-hearing, as well. She wouldn’t be reading to the dowager, she’d be shouting.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  Brittany was taken aback by the rude male voice that answered.

  “Who are you?” she demanded in reaction to his rudeness.

  “Dawson, the butler. Who did you want to speak with?” he barked, completely missing her reprimand.

  “I’m calling about the ad. The one in the Sunday edition of the Times.”

  “I’m taking care of that. I can give you an appointment with my employer for this evening. You’re the first to call. I’ll put you down for seven-thirty, and send a taxi to pick you up. What’s your name and address?”

  “This evening?” Things were moving a little too fast for her.

  “Yes, at seven-thirty. Your name—”

  The door to her office opened and her assistant called out, advising her that the executive editor, her boss, wanted to see her, pronto.

  “Hello…” Dawson said impatiently. “I haven’t got all day, lady. The other line is ringing.”

  “Britt Astor,” Brittany replied, adding her address on Park Avenue, while Sandy waved to her frantically.

  By the time Brittany fixed the scheduling snafu for her boss and nabbed a seat on the subway, she was too exhausted to worry about the upcoming interview. She was too tired to malinger over the fact that she’d given her name and address to a complete stranger— and a cranky one, at that. Oh, well, the crankiness was actually pacifying. It wasn’t as though he’d been dying to get her to come. He’d only seemed annoyed that she was a necessary evil or something—if she’d read his mood correctly.

  She closed her eyes and sighed. She might as well nap; there was never anyone all that interesting to look at on the subway, anyway. A few moments later, someone’s coughing fit brought her out of her sleepy trance.

  The subway car was crowded, and when her eyes blinked open she saw a silver belt buckle on a leather belt cinching a narrow, masculine waist. Glancing downward, she saw jeans-encased legs, then cowboy boots. And not just any cowboy boots; these were tipped with steel ram’s heads.

  Trying to be discreet, she let her gaze travel back up past the belt buckle to a black leather vest with nothing under it but tanned, sinewy muscle. Inching her gaze higher still, she swallowed dryly at the sight of designer sunglasses, a shock of straight, wheat-colored hair, and a cocky grin.

  The last person she’d seen who looked this good was Ethan Moss. And she hadn’t seen much of him lately. It was kind of hard worshiping Ethan from afar after he’d fallen from his polo pony during the recent charity match. He’d disappeared from the public eye, the society columns and the tabloids. It seemed he was off nursing either his wounds or his ego—or perhaps both.

  She returned her attention to the man in front of her and realized his cocky grin wasn’t meant for her, but for the man sitting beside her—a stockbroker type in a fashionable suit and tie. She wasn’t disappointed when the hunk got off at the Bloomingdale’s stop.

  Yeah, she had great taste in impossible men, all right.

  SO MUCH FOR HIS IMAGE as a womanizing, jet-set athlete, Ethan Moss thought, sitting alone in the dark.

  It had all been a ruse, anyway. He’d been living a lie. The perfect smile that looked out from a hundred newspaper photographs hid a lonely existence.

  He’d spent his childhood in expensive boarding schools because his parents were too sociable to be bothered with raising their child. There was always plenty of money, of course. Love was what had been in short supply.

  He’d grown into a young man who would take any risk to get the attention he craved. Date any beautiful woman for the same reason. His accident had forced him to see that he’d grown into a man his parents were proud of because he’d become just like them.

  He had their superficial values and a life devoid of love. How ironic that the accident that had made him realize the truth had also left him too damaged to pursue love.

  No woman would want him now. They would only pity him.

  Blind! The pencil in his hand snapped.

  He was blind.

  Sitting alone in the numbing darkness made him want to swear at the doctors who’d told him there was only a fifty-fifty chance he’d ever see again.

  The doctors were fools.

  He would see again. He would.

  He refused to accept any other answer. Or to function as a blind man. That would mean he’d accepted his blindness.

  Never.

  Which was why he was now hiding in a rented brownstone with his butler-groom, Dawson. He’d had to escape his family’s suffocating concern. The flowers, the well-wishers and their whispering had closed in on him like the darkness.

  His turbulent feelings, which ranged from fear to rage, had probably alienated all his friends. Only Dawson could put up with him, and even that relationship was tenuous.

  He knew he should try to adjust, but he couldn’t imagine not living life full tilt. The thought of having to accept that possibility would bring on the dark depression that skirted around him like a night phantom…waiting.

  “Dawson, where in hell is that Brett guy who’s supposed to read to me?” he yelled.

  The pealing doorbell was his answer.

  “Bring him in here.” Ethan shouted the order, picturing a Mister Rogers clone, complete with cardigan. A soft-spoken sort. A pushover.

  Finally.

  Dawson was determined not to give him the least bit of sympathy. Probably because he wasn’t enjoying being pressed i
nto service as a butler, instead of doing his job as groom for Ethan’s string of polo ponies.

  Mentally Ethan rubbed his hands together, enjoying a sense of power for the first time since his accident.

  Bookish sorts were easy to intimidate.

  2

  AT EXACTLY SEVEN-THIRTY the taxi let Britt out at an imposing residence on East Ninety-fifth Street between Lexington and Park. The expensive four-story residence had arched wood-framed windows and black wrought-iron trim. The front stoop and balconies were decorated with wooden planters trailing greenery.

  Very posh. Francesca would say la-di-da, Brittany reflected with a smile.

  But it was not anything foreign to her. Wealth didn’t intimidate her. And yet her hands were clammy. It was probably the cranky butler, Dawson, who unnerved her.

  She reminded herself why she was there. Picturing the kitten that was a cross between an American tabby and the Asian leopard cat, she mentally sharpened her claws. She was shy, but no pussycat. Sandy Christenberry could vouch for that.

  Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she climbed the front steps to the entrance. She half expected Dawson to answer the door dressed in a tuxedo, but when he appeared he was all jock. A most unlikely butler.

  The only formal black-and-white in the foyer was the elegant white marble floor patterned with tiny black diamond shapes. In the middle of the foyer was a large, round, Victorian table. Centered on it was a huge vase of pink peonies. Their sweet fragrance assaulted Brittany as she introduced herself.

  “Dawson, was that the door?” a deep voice demanded from the depths of the large, luxurious apartment. “Is it my appointment?”

  “Yes—” Dawson began to reply.

  “Well, let me get a look at— Oh damn!” Brittany heard the sound of a china cup clattering to the floor. She wasn’t certain, but it had sounded as if the cup had been thrown, not dropped.

  Dawson, looking more bodyguard than butler, nodded in the direction of the bellowing voice. “You’re the first appointment. Let’s hope he hires you,” he said, leading the way.